


Two Spies Sittin' on a Boat Talkin' About Sex

by st_crispins



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Interactive Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 21:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6536527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_crispins/pseuds/st_crispins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solo and Kuryakin take the Pursang out, get drunk together, drop their guards and share opinions, life stories and secrets. Written interactively; loosely related to the St. Crispin's Day society universe. Transferred from File 40. Written with N.L. Hayes</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Spies Sittin' on a Boat Talkin' About Sex

Written with N.L. Hayes

It had seemed like a good idea when Solo suggested it — taking the _Pursang_ out to sea, to nullify the temptation of dropping into HQ while it was off limits to them for the weekend. Kuryakin had envisioned 48 hours of the summer Atlantic, land peeking through the haze on the horizon, deceptive silence, perhaps letting out the sails and running with the wind  to test the boat’s speed. Predictably, Solo’s vision was different, and they’d put in along the South Fork of Long Island as the sun was going down. _A nice dinner_ , he’d said, even though they both understood dinner was only part of the equation.

And now, Kuryakin leaned back against the red vinyl of the booth, idly turning his empty glass on the wooden tabletop and watching his partner watching the restaurant patrons. Solo’s eyes shifted from woman to woman, smoothly, yet unobtrusively; not one of them would have been offended had they made eye contact. But Kuryakin knew: Solo was “shopping” — evaluating, classifying — age, personality, availability — as efficiently as he might size up the enemy.  It was nothing new, but the Russian found himself short of patience with the behavior as well as the surroundings. The music was mind-numbingly banal, the food unremarkable. Besides, he was drinking too much, despite the fact that the vodka was poor, the beer not as good. Kuryakin thought he’d prefer to be drunk with only the stars and the soft slapping of the waves against the hull for company. He rubbed his forehead. That actually sounded rather appealing. “I’m going back to the boat,” he said standing up and reaching for his wallet. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck with your hunt on your own. You can use the lonely traveler gambit.”

 _Hunt_? Solo wondered absently, as he realized Kuryakin had risen from his seat. _Oh. Right_ Illya must be annoyed with him again. _A mental shrug_. So, he looked at girls when he was bored. So what?

“No, wait, ” Solo said. “I think I’ll go back with you.” He slid out of the seat, remembering to toss down a generous tip for the cute blonde waitress with the trilling laugh. She’d been flirting with them on and off throughout dinner, though Solo could see her interest was in his partner, not in him. Either Illya had chosen to ignore her or missed the signals completely. Too bad; his loss. She looked like she might be fun.

As they moved past the bar, the bartender, a tall, red-headed woman, tipped her chin Solo’s way. “Don’t forget — not before noon,” the bartender had said as she mixed a banana daiquiri.

“I’ll remember,” he replied with an easy smile, not breaking stride as he followed Kuryakin through the restaurant door.

The ocean was near enough that the sounds of the waves washing onto the beach were as loud and steady as the sounds of late night traffic in Manhattan. But the profound blackness of the water beneath the sliver of moon  put miles — real and metaphorical — between them and the city. Kuryakin lifted his face to the ocean breeze and let it blow away the remnants of cigarette smoke from the restaurant. “You don’t have to leave just because I want to,” he said. “I can find someone to ferry me out to the boat.” He certainly hadn’t meant to put a damper on Napoleon’s evening, but he didn’t know how to convey that without sounding as if he was rejecting his friend’s company. _Not before noon_ the bartender had said. Perhaps even Napoleon drew some limits.

“No, s’okay. Unless you don’t want the company.” Sometimes, Illya preferred it that way and Solo could usually tell when to keep his distance. At times he couldn't — like now — he'd just ask.

Kuryakin looked back and shook his head slightly. “Company of friends. Just not the company of strangers.” He started walking in the direction of the marina.

Solo went with him, breathing in the sea air. He almost lit a cigarette and then thought better of it. “Beautiful night,” Solo commented, automatically checking the sky. Only fair weather clouds. The forecasters were predicting no rain until Monday.

“It’s interesting.” Kuryakin let his thoughts wander. “You really don’t have to go very far to find yourself in that … No Man’s Land … stateless. The ocean reduces us to that. Or perhaps expands us to that. You can close your eyes to the obvious localizing cues, and the smells, the sounds of the waves washing up here are no different than along the Gulf of Finland — or the South China Sea, or the Mediterranean,” he added a bit to quickly, too obviously diverting attention from his initial connection.

“Oh, I dunno,” Solo said as they found their dinghy waiting for them, still tied to the wharf.  “I think seas are very different. The Pacific looks different — even smells different, too. And the Mediterranean — softer, gentler. Like women — each one has its own beauty, its own subtleties.” He allowed Illya to climb in ahead of him before he hopped down himself. As he reached for the towline to undo it, he leaned toward Illya and added, “Wanna get drunk?” It was a luxury they seldom could afford. But tonight seemed calm and peaceful, they were alone, and there was a bottle of good Scotch , a quart of vodka and a case of beer waiting for them.

 _Ah, a substitution_ , Kuryakin thought--  — alcohol instead of sex. A wry smile twisted his mouth as he nodded agreement. Sometimes their purposes meshed, if for different reasons. He settled facing aft in the center seat and lifted the oars into the locks. “I didn’t say the seas are identical,” he went on as he dipped the blades into the water, “only that there’s a commonality, an essential quality they all share. I suppose that says something about us,” he  challenged, “I see the similarity, you see the differences.”

“Maybe it’s just the sailor in me,” Solo said settling back. He’d rowed them in; now it was Illya’s turn to take them back out. “I should have lived a couple of hundred years ago. I think I would have liked that life. Traveling the world in a good, sturdy ship rather than the way we do — piecemeal, in cars, trains, planes, whatever. Maybe even a privateer, a pirate. I hear the Spanish Main was pretty exciting in those days.”

Kuryakin shook his head. “You’re mad. Utterly mad.” There was nothing romantic about his own experience with the Navy. That was all about war and destruction — whether as threat or deterrent, and from whatever side. “Those ‘good, sturdy ships’ were turned to kindling by any real storm, and life on board doesn’t even stand close observation.” He  looked back over his shoulder to check his heading. “I suspect that sailors of that type exist largely in the imaginations of writers and madmen like yourself.”

Solo clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Lots of madmen, then. Plenty of guys went to sea, then and later. Sail around the world. Have adventures. See new places. Meet new people that no one’s ever met before.” He smiled dreamily. “Make love to a Tahitian beauty on the beach of an uncharted island. C’mon, don’t you have even a glimmer of romance in your heart? You’re Russian — isn’t it in the literature?”

“Have you ever read any Russian literature?” Kuryakin asked with some irritation. “Anna throws herself under the train; Bolkonsky dies a horrible death, wracked with guilt over his wife’s horrible death. The wages of classical romanticism. The French are no better.”  _You wouldn’t understand,_ he thought. There was romance in his heart, but it was the romance of Socialist Realism — building, sacrificing, struggling — for something more, something beyond the personal. “Besides,” he said at last, shipping the oars as they drew alongside the _Pursang_ , “working for U.N.C.L.E. is supposed to qualify as a romantic endeavor.”

“That it does,” Solo agreed. “And I suppose it will have to suffice. Maybe in a hundred years, people will be writing romantic adventures about us.” He secured the dinghy to the side of the boat  and waited again, as Illya climbed up ahead of him. “And someone like you will say, ‘oh, but all they knew was blood and death.’”

“And someone like you will say ‘it was all beautiful women and exotic locales,’” Kuryakin countered. “The truth has to include both. But, if you’re going to be honest, which of those two extremes carries the greater consequence for us? When you tally it all up in the end — the harem girls and hedonism on one hand,” he held his hands, palm upwards, like a balance, “and the interrogations, bullets, knives, explosions on the other — which is going to have more significance?”

“Historically, I suppose the explosions,” Solo chuckled. “But for me, when I retire, I prefer to remember the harem girls and the hedonism, thank you very much.” He descended into the cabin and began rooting through the cabinets to locate the liquor bottles. He knew where the beer was: in the small refrigerator. “Are we using glassware tonight or are we just going to swig the grog like a pair of Bowery bums?”

“The day you do anything like a Bowery bum the world may tilt off its axis,” Kuryakin said, taking two beers from the refrigerator and sizing up the resulting space. “But warm vodka comes close to it. You know, you do this backwards. Good beer shouldn’t be chilled; vodka — yes . If the bottle won’t fit in here, I’m hanging it over the side … Matey.”

“Sorry about the vodka,” Solo apologized. “But not about the beer. Warm beer this side of the Atlantic tastes the same going in as it does coming out.” He leaned over the side of the refrigerator door and snagged a bottle for himself. “Hope you like Beck’s. Best I could do. If you need it warm, put it between your knees.”

Kuryakin offered him a mock grimace. “Not if I want to drink it any time soon. For that, I’ll have to rely on my steamy thighs.” He removed several more bottles from the refrigerator and wedged the vodka bottle in their place. “But that’s part of your romantic sailor’s life — drinking your own piss when the fresh water runs out. Which it will.” He pried the cap off a Beck’s and took a long swallow. It was good, even cold, although he wouldn’t admit it to Napoleon. “Warm beer can become part of your fantasy.”

“Ohhhh,” Solo laughed, shaking his head, “no thank you. I have better fantasies than that.” Leave it to Illya to find a tawdry reality in the best swashbuckling adventure. Probably never read _Treasure Island_. Or _Robinson Crusoe_. But Solo had, and other stories like them. It got him through his childhood. On the other hand, Solo knew his history. And considering what Illya’s childhood must have been like, the Russian would have needed a hell of a lot more than a couple of illustrated classics to get him through. That explained Illya’s pragmatism and his melancholy, but it didn’t explain everything.

“And as for your ‘steamy thighs’ —,” Solo said, rummaging through the cabinets for something to go with the beer. There’d been pretzels or chips around somewhere. “—they might not be quite so steamy if you’d given that waitress a second glance. She was flirting with you, you know.” Of course, Illya did. He’d have to have been blind not to notice.

“Yes, I know. It was tempting — like the Grasshopper Pie — but I passed on that, too,” Kuryakin joked. “It is possible, you realize — to decline an offer. And I’m quite certain the young lady wasn’t irreparably damaged by my rejection.” He hooked the necks of three more bottles of beer between his fingers and climbed back up the ladder onto the deck.

Solo found a bag of pretzels, grabbed the bottle of Scotch and a shot glass, and added them to the two bottles of beer cradled in his arms. Thus fortified, he scrambled up after Illya, deposited the cache on one of the benches in the cockpit and sat down.

The day had been a hot and humid one, but now a light breeze stirred, delivering much needed relief. Solo undid most of the buttons of his short-sleeved shirt and lit a cigarette as he settled down to pour himself a drink. When he wanted to get really and seriously drunk, boilermakers usually did the trick.

“I have no doubt she’ll get over it,” Solo said casually as he measured out the Scotch,  “but I would hardly equate that pretty girl with Grasshopper pie. It didn’t have to lead to sex. Maybe she thought you were interesting — or just cute.” He tried to suppress a grin and was not entirely successful. Illya hated being called cute.

“I wasn’t equating the two,” Kuryakin said from the bow. “But, you’re being inconsistent, Napoleon. You say, it didn’t have to lead to sex. But to reduce the steaminess of my thighs —which was your initial premise — sex would have to have been involved in one way or another.”

“I don’t have to be consistent,” Solo protested. “ I wasn't trying to argue logic. It was just a _joke._ ”

But Illya had a point to make. “And sex was involved. If, as you suggest, she found me ‘interesting’ or — cute,” the word came out slightly strangled, “that interest could only have been physical, because I wasn’t saying anything. Unless, of course, she was fascinated by my order of the New York strip steak and baked potato with sour cream. Or never saw anyone drink vodka neat. Neither of which would sustain much conversation. No,” he finished the beer and walked back to the cockpit to find another bottle, “she was interested only in my body. And in truth, that would be all I had on offer.”

“All right, then, yeah,” Solo called after him, changing tact. “So maybe the initial attraction was physical. So maybe she was interested in your body before she was familiar with your mind. One still might have led to the other. So what? What’s wrong with that?”

Kuryakin found the opener and pried the cap off another bottle. He sipped at it and found the beer warmer and more flavorful than before. “Nothing,” he answered at last. “But that’s not even what was happening. There was no prospect of an _initial_   physical attraction leading anywhere.   And I have no problem with that, either — once in awhile. I just didn’t feel so inclined. But, I’m curious why you suggest that ‘one might have led to the other.’ She’s a waitress in a restaurant that I shall most likely never revisit or want to. There might be mutual lust, but she will never be familiar with my mind nor I with hers — not in a few hours. Or did I misunderstand you?”

“Oh, so she’s a waitress and you’re a Russian spy with a Ph.D. and never the twain shall meet?” Solo grinned. “I’m surprised, Illya. That’s rather unsocialist, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Napoleon,” Kuryakin warned with a crooked smile. “Particularly with accusations that could have some serious repercussions for me, should they reach the wrong ears. No, I have nothing against waitresses, including my body — not tonight at least. It wouldn’t have mattered had she been a NASA engineer.” He pulled at the beer. “No, I take that back. In that case, I’d have been under some … professional obligation to cultivate her acquaintance. Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m just saying you never know where something will lead going in. There are no guarantees. You never know what’s going to happen — and that's what’s interesting to me. So you take a risk.” Solo swigged the Scotch, dragged on his cigarette and shrugged. “And if it’s just for a few hours — a day, a night, a week.  So what? Sometimes it’s satisfying for what it is. Sometimes, it’s enough.”

“Rather like going into a casino, then.” Kuryakin frowned in the darkness and lifted the bottle to his lips. “You place your bet and either win or lose. The enjoyment is in the unknown, the novelty, the risk. But it’s not just your risk, is it? Or your right to define ‘enough.’”

“That’s true. I meant mutually satisfying for both people. It’s no fun if it’s not.” Solo sighed in between sips of beer. “And as far as it being like a casino, all life is like that. We have chance encounters every day of our lives. But I know what you’re implying not so subtly. It’s not _always_   about sex. Sometimes it’s about less than that — or more. Sharing time, a few laughs. I like women. I like being with them. I like the way they think and talk. If it leads to something else, fine. But if not — ” Solo shrugged again. “I don’t _have_ to get laid.”

“Perhaps not,” Kuryakin acknowledged, considering whether to let the topic go, let the statement go unchallenged. After all, it was none of his business how Napoleon lived his private life, which was why he had gotten up to leave the restaurant in the first place. Normally, they avoided conversations such as this, in which the undercurrent of mutual criticism was just below the surface. Kuryakin knew he had provoked Solo with his parting comment in the restaurant. But, in retrospect, he realized that Napoleon’s response — leaving with him and suggesting that they get drunk — was his subtle way of calling the Russian on it. He exchanged his empty bottle for a full one and nearly drained it in a single draught. _If you want to get drunk and share truths, my friend, let’s do it,_ he thought. “But that _is_ your goal — ‘to get laid.’ Interesting turn of phrase, that, by the way. The rest is just foreplay, on which, admittedly, you don’t appear to skimp or disappoint. But don’t delude yourself about being unconcerned about the outcome. And it’s that — deceit — of being unconcerned, that I … get tired of ignoring.”

“It’s not a — what did you just call it? — a deceit?” Solo said, bristling. “It’s not a goal, it’s a possibility. And I’m always open to possibilities.” He took a long draw of his beer. “A goal would mean no other outcome, or partial outcome, was acceptable. That I was only interested — purely interested — in one thing, and I’m not. That’s where a lot of guys make their mistake — and why I end up in bed a lot more often than most. Do you think women are stupid? They’re more aware of what’s going on than we are.

“I don’t try to score; I engage. I express an interest. I offer an opportunity. Women are intrigued by that. And I go only as far as the woman invites me to go.” Solo leaned forward to make his point, gesturing with the cigarette. “And no further Ever.”

Kuryakin noted the justified anger. “I never meant to imply that you did. Or would. And I hope you’re not seriously questioning whether I think women are stupid, because I don’t. Not about this, or anything else. Do they know you’re seducing them? For the most part I assume so. Are they willing participants in that seduction? Unquestionably. I’ve seen you around a lot of women, and I’ll be the first person — have often _been_ the first or only person — to defend you — that you have never imposed your attentions on anyone, or offered them where they weren’t appropriate.

“I didn’t say you were deceiving the women.” He set aside the empty bottle and looked for its errant, full companion. “The deceit is your supposed indifference to the outcome. True, you’re not trying simply to score, as you say, as some self-contained victory. But you feed off the satisfaction of these women. And your ultimate evidence of their satisfaction — not just sexual, mind — is whether or not you end up in their beds. I mean listen to what you just said — you equated the observation that most men end up in bed less often than you do with their _mistake_. Your words, not mine.”

“So I like sex? I’m not denying that,” Solo countered. “I’m not _indifferent_   to the outcome, no. If I was — if the women thought I was — they probably would be insulted. Women like being pursued and desired. They find it flattering. I’m just saying that if it doesn’t happen, or if it happens differently — if I end up on their couch or at their table instead of in their bed, I’m not going off to slit my wrists. Or even cry in my beer.”

Kuryakin pulled back. “Is that a cue for me to switch to vodka?”

“I didn’t mean that personally,” Solo chuckled. “But you’re welcome to cry over any liquor you prefer if you’re so moved. Like you said, it’s just friends tonight.”

“Well, I’m not inclined either to cry or slit wrists tonight — mine or yours,” the Russian quipped and ducked down the ladder to refill his empty beer bottle with vodka. His voice carried up from the galley. “English isn’t my first language, you know, or even my second. Perhaps ‘indifferent’ isn’t the right word.” His head appeared level with the deck. “Do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Another beer,” Solo called back as he ground out the last of his cigarette butt and tossed it overboard.

“ _Vsyo ravno_ we say — ‘either way, no way, it’s all the same to me’,” Kuryakin said as he rejoined Solo in the cockpit and reached into the bag for a handful of pretzels. “Every outcome is equivalent. That’s what you’re claiming, but if it were — why would it be such a … compulsion?  And that, my friend, is how it looks to me. The explanations are very nice, even chivalrous. You say you _engage_ them, show interest, but it’s guaranteed to be a short-lived engagement, a very limited interest.” Kuryakin could feel the heat of the alcohol suffusing across his skin, melting away his normal inhibitions. “To me, it looks more like establishing walls and distance that you think you can disguise as generosity and intimacy by its sheer volume. And you hold it up to me as proof that you’re supremely well-adjusted.” He took a deep, burning drink of the vodka and waited for his friend to throw him overboard.

“Well, I didn’t mean for it to sound ‘generous,’ Solo said, ignoring Illya’s discomfort. He couldn’t really resent the Russian’s honesty, even if he didn’t think what Illya said was entirely warranted. “It’s not altruism. That would be incredibly egotistical — God’s gift to women and all that. I’m not a social worker. And you’re right to some extent. It’s often short-lived. Not always, but often. Sometimes, I wish it could be otherwise, but with our jobs, our lives, more often than not, I won’t see the woman again. Still, some of the best times I’ve had were like that. Short but very sweet. Minds aren’t the only things that can engage: bodies do too.”

Solo considered as he opened the beer Kuryakin had brought up to him. “Take that cute little waitress, the one who was eyeing you tonight. It’s a boring, stressful job. She might have a boring, mundane life to match. And then you come along — all mysterious and exotic. The hair, the eyes, the accent. She’s intrigued. She’s excited. Maybe she’s never encountered anyone like you. Y’know, she’s going to tell all her girlfriends about you. She’s going to fantasize about you. She’s probably going to climax to you tonight. All alone in her bed.

“And you’re here, getting drunk with me. When maybe you two could have had a good time together. Maybe she had something to offer you as well. So she’s there, dreaming of the handsome stranger who barely gave her a glance, and you’re here, being your usual melancholy — sorry, practical — self. And you’re going to fall into an empty bed tonight, alone, and wake up with a bitch of a hangover, not any better for it.” Solo sighed. “That seems pretty sad to me. If I’m being neurotic or something, well, sue me.”

“She’s better off,” Kuryakin said quietly. “If she really has those unrealistic fantasies about an exotic stranger — let her keep them. She might think she missed something, but this way, she’ll always have the fantasy. Which is better than the reality she would have gotten. And that is not melancholy or vodka or self-pity talking.” He looked up at the sky over the open ocean, picking out the stars and constellations that were invisible from the city. Their constancy was always comforting; no matter how long a time passed between sightings, they were always there, where they were expected to be. “She should have smiled at you.”

“But she didn’t,” Solo said. “And why you think her fantasies would be better than the reality, I will never understand. You’re the pragmatist after all. And since we seem to be playing truth or dare tonight, tell me this: what do you wish for? Fantasize about? If you don’t want to sleep with a lot of women, if you think it’s — I don't know — compulsive or unhealthy or just plain stupid, okay, I can accept that. But what are you looking for? What do you imagine? Hope for?  One woman? A wife? I’d like to have a wife someday. You’ve probably guessed that. But you don’t seem to want that, either.”

“Truth?” Kuryakin asked. “I don’t think about what I want. Not really. And you’re welcome to consider that neurotic. Probably it is. But as you say, I’m a pragmatist. There are a few things I know I want, and those choices severely restrict almost everything in what you might define as my private life. You say you like sex,” he continued. “Not exactly a revelation. I like it myself. But, … how do I explain?

“With a prostitute, for example, it’s a business transaction, _quid pro quo_.  Everyone gets exactly what they bargain for — at least, no less. With someone like Susan — yes, I noticed her name — no matter how realistically you view the situation going in, there is always, as you say, the possibility of something more developing for one or both. Of a future. That future might be limited. It might be rejected. But there should be that possibility, if it’s really an engagement of two human beings.” He stood and walked out to the side of the deck.  “There isn’t that possibility with me, and I don’t really want there to be; it’s too complicated. But that would be dishonest to Susan and her like. And, despite popular belief, I’m not indifferent to the feelings of others.”

“I never said you were,” Solo protested quietly.

“To the contrary; I dislike being the instrument of someone else’s unhappiness or disappointment.”

“Well, so do I. That’s why I try so hard not to be. Before, you said I ‘feed off’ the satisfaction of others. I suppose that’s true in a sense, although I’d prefer not to put it so cynically. I do enjoy giving pleasure to the women I sleep with. The sound of a woman coming — ” Solo clicked his tongue against his teeth. “— that’s one of the most beautiful sounds in the world. And yeah, I do get a certain satisfaction in sharing that, maybe even being the cause. I suppose some might consider it a power trip; I don’t know. I don’t really think about it that way. I just love the engagement — the coming together. When you’re on the same wavelength, when your bodies are in sync, it’s such a rush. Not just from the orgasm either. That’s the least of it. I can get an orgasm any time, with or without a partner. But the intimacy — especially when you’ve never been with her before — God, it’s like, it’s like losing your virginity all over again.”

Kuryakin laughed. “That presumes, of course, that the original loss is a pleasant memory.” He walked back to the cockpit, the conversation having shifted once again from the personal to the general. “Interesting, isn’t it, that we speak of ‘loss’ of virginity? As if the virgin state was the one to be desired.” He tipped back the bottle, then wiped the edge of his mouth with his thumb. “God forbid.”

“Oh?” Solo’s mouth quirked into a crooked grin. _Now that was a statement, wasn’t it?_   He couldn’t help but be intrigued. “Well, I lost mine at 15 to a woman twice my age. How did you lose yours?”

“I didn’t _lose_   it. I know exactly where it went,” Kuryakin said in a half-hearted effort to sidestep the question. “I’m just lucky I didn’t lose a lot more in the bargain.” He took a drink, feeling Napoleon’s eyes pinning him to the spot, waiting. “You’re not going to let me off the hook, are you,” he said at last.

“Are you kidding?”

“I wasn’t so precocious as you,” Kuryakin began with resignation. “I was 16, and the girl was about the same age. I was in my last year at the naval school; she was the daughter of the Commandant — his only daughter. Very pretty, very … fun loving … and doing very poorly at school, particularly in mathematics and physics. If she failed her exams, then even her family connections couldn’t get her a medal at graduation. And without that, she’d never get into university. The Commandant assigned me to tutor her which, of course, I did. She was a bright girl, but less interested in trigonometry and physical laws than in physical contact. I should have had better sense, but I was 16 and had lived for the past seven years in the sole company of males.” He shrugged expansively and drained the last of the vodka from his bottle. “The Commandant was not pleased. If it weren’t for the fact that others with influence greater than his had already shown an interest in my future, it would have gone very badly.”

“Politics; always politics. I ask you about your first time, and you tell me about _her father._ ” Solo shook his head in between sips of beer. “Christ. What about her? Was it good? Was it surprising, or what you expected? Did she come?” Solo tried not to laugh but he was feeling his liquor and he couldn’t help it. “ _Did you?”_

Kuryakin laughed along. “It was good — right up until the moment her father walked in, so yes — it was definitely surprising. You’d like to think that an unexpected event such as that would short-circuit the whole business — give you a chance for fight or flight.” He shook his head and looked skyward. If it weren’t for the amount he’d drunk, he’d never have been fool enough to give Napoleon this lethal information. But the truth was, he was enjoying it — the night, the friendship, the rare pleasure of dropping his guard. “But, it didn’t. In retrospect, I’m not certain whether the cries coming from Sonja were indications of pleasure, or just that she had seen her father looming in the doorway. But between them and the sight of him reaching for his sidearm, I became harder than I was then aware was possible, and I couldn’t have stopped what I was doing if my life depended on it. At least, it seemed that way. I learned two things that night: never to mix business with pleasure and how long it takes to do up all the buttons on a uniform. Satisfied?”

“Yeah,” Solo said, grinning. He wasn’t accustomed to Illya being this candid. Draining his beer, Solo thought: _He must be really drunk. Wait until he remembers this in the morning_. “Well, I can see where your aversion to sailing and all things naval began.” Solo started to stand up and swayed. At first, he thought it was the boat then he realized: _Damn. I’m pretty drunk too_. “So I take it he didn’t shoot you after all,” Solo added as he wobbled down the ladder to the cabin, in search of more beer.

“Oh, I enjoy sailing well enough,” Kuryakin said, relieved that Napoleon hadn’t chosen to comment on the arousal-danger, or worse, arousal-gun connection. “I wouldn’t come out with you, if I didn’t. And the Navy’s all right. My aversion, if you want to call it that, is to acting precipitously on those myriad possibilities you mentioned before. Bring up the vodka, will you?” he leaned forward and called into the cabin. “If you want to go in for simplistic analysis — that first experiences shape our adult behaviors — that my ‘imprinting’ on the unpleasant possible consequences lurking in the promise made me cautious — then it staggers the mind to consider what your first experience must have been like.”

Solo heard the implied invitation and smiled to himself. Well, it was only fair. He opened the refrigerator, retrieved the vodka and several more beers and returned to the deck. “So you’re telling me that having Sonja’s father scare the shit out of you like that made you wary of women for life?” Solo laughed, though he knew the idea was ludicrous. “Well, I can see that. I’ve had a few shotguns pointed my way, too.” As Illya well knew. “It’s a wonder you can even get it up,” he teased wickedly.

Kuryakin’s studied glare was lost in the darkness.  It didn’t matter. Napoleon would  know it was there, as expected; it was part of the game, part of the fabric of their friendship. He accepted the vodka bottle and decanted some into one of the empty beer bottles, waiting for Napoleon to continue with his story.

Solo reclaimed his seat and opened a fresh beer bottle. As he poured himself another shot on the side, he said, “I guess I was lucky that my first time was rather nice — and not so fraught with danger, though I suppose it was similarly — ” he groped for a word “ — illicit. ” Solo tossed off the shot in one gulp and sat for a moment, allowing the slow, smooth burn to spread through his chest. “Her name was Francine — Franny. She worked with my mother and though I don’t know exactly how old she was, she was somewhere around twice my age. She seduced me.” His eyes shifted sideways slyly as he grinned. “It was a birthday present. She said she wanted to teach me about women.” He sighed, conjuring up an erotic image. “And I can still remember, like it was yesterday, the red silk robe she wore.”

“I ask you about your first time, and you tell me about her clothes,” Kuryakin paraphrased in as close an imitation of his partner as he could manage. “At least tell me about the politics — what motivation could there be for a woman in her thirties to want to ‘teach’ a teenager about women? And as a birthday present. Yours? Or hers?”

“It was mine. The first time, anyway. We were together a couple of times. The politics? Don’t know if there were any. Even though I was an only child, I grew up surrounded by women. Waitresses, cleaning women, cooks — most of them my mother’s friends. Franny was one of them. She was a waitress, and she had a boyfriend, too, away in the war. They were going to get married, but he died and never came back.”

Solo studied his beer. He didn’t want to tell Illya the whole story, about Franny, about what she was to him. It seemed like an intrusion, a violation somehow. Illya would no doubt judge her, as he was doing even now, and Solo didn’t want to hear that. Franny had been good to him; she didn’t deserve to have her life dragged out and put on display, to be studied critically.

“I’d had my eye on a couple of girls around the hotel and Franny saw that. I guess she wanted to start me out on the right foot. ‘Imprint’ me right, like you said.” Solo’s grin faded and he grew quiet as he rolled the beer bottle between his hands, studying the label. “Maybe, she saw I had the potential of being a real bastard, and wanted to make sure it didn’t go that way. I think she succeeded, but you’d have to ask others about that for an objective opinion.”

Although he didn’t understand what, Kuryakin sensed he had said the wrong thing. The humor had gone out of their exchange, leaving it adrift, like the wind dropping out of the sails, becalming the boat. The dark introspection of Napoleon’s comment stood at the very limit of the personal territory they ever broached — even beyond that limit. Unguarded comments were the predictable danger of drinking too much, but while they might enjoy some revelations that escaped their internal censors, others were best let go by. “Perhaps it’s no more complicated than that, then,” he said after a few moments’ silence. “You grew up with women; I grew up with men. Women have always been a part of your life; but they were rare visitors — trespassers, almost — in my world. To be treated with respect, but kept at a polite distance.”

Solo noted Illya’s discomfort. “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s just that — Franny meant a lot to me. I know how it must sound, but really, she wasn’t taking advantage of me or anything like that. She had other men, but she really did care about me I think. Maybe she was just trying to keep me from knocking up the local girls.” Solo snuffled a rueful laugh as he sipped at the beer bottle. He arched an eyebrow. “Do you really want to know what she taught me? Seriously?”

“Only if it doesn’t violate the privacy of your memory,” Kuryakin replied sincerely. The depth of feeling Napoleon attached to this woman, to his experiences with her, was obvious, and just as obviously personal. Under other circumstances, the Russian would have said _No thank you; I’ll take your word for it_ , with a discrete smile. But Solo had introduced the topic in the first place and then passed up the opportunity to _let it go_ without further comment. If he wanted, or needed, to say more, to explain — then Kuryakin had to be ready to listen and understand.

“Well, the first thing she taught me was not to be selfish,” Solo began. “That like the rest of life, to be polite, a gentleman always let’s the lady go first and doesn’t slam the door in her face.

“The second thing she taught me is that sex is about a lot more than screwing. She showed me how her body worked. She was experienced, patient. She’d been around, if you know what I mean.”

Solo looked out into the ocean, calling up memories and emotions, long packed away. His voice grew distant, wistful. “I can still see her: she’d lie back, relaxed, smiling, and let me explore her. I’d touch her and she’d gently take my hand and say, ‘no, not there ... here.’ Or ‘here.’ She’d press my fingertips against her and say, ‘lighter’ or ‘harder’ or tease me about being too aggressive or too careful. She showed me how to kiss her — and not just on the mouth. She taught me how different women’s responses were from men’s, from my own. There weren’t many, but those afternoons were valuable to me. I learned how enjoyable and satisfying sex could be, and how much better it was when the experience was shared with the other person in mind.”

He looked back at Kuryakin, suddenly self-conscious. “I guess you could say old Franny corrupted me, developed my taste for it.”

Kuryakin was at a loss for words and took refuge in nursing the vodka from the beer bottle. It was a strange, sad image — a young boy being schooled in the refinements of sexual performance by … what? A lonely woman, unfulfilled or disappointed by a departed lover? A woman with a deviant mother complex? Or perhaps, simply a woman who had known a _perfect_ love, then lost it? Perhaps Napoleon himself didn’t know, and it didn’t really matter. For the teenager, it had been a treasured and life-altering experience. Kuryakin’s curiosity about any of the unspecified facts or about what, if anything, she had learned from him, would have been inappropriate and unwelcome. “Apparently, you were an excellent student,” he said at last.  Then, in a shift of mood, he continued, “You know, if I were to tell that story, people would mutter behind their hands, _Aha, KGB — creating an asset._   Are you sure she wasn’t CSIS?”

Solo laughed softly under his breath. “No, spying was the furthest thing from my life back then.” More seriously, he added, “Sex doesn’t have to be a means to an end. Can’t it be something just for itself? Like enjoying a good meal.”

“A _good_ meal, or just a meal?” Kuryakin challenged him. “Anyone tires of the same meal day after day, whether it’s bread and water or lobster and champagne.”

“But it’s not the same meal,” Solo countered. “Every woman is different. She has different responses, different needs. She wants or likes different things. Or, to stretch the metaphor, sometimes it’s hamburgers and french fries; sometimes it’s chateaubriand. Sometimes it’s a quick snack; sometimes it’s a sumptuous five-course dinner. Do you get tired of eating? I don’t. And I don’t get tired of sex, either.”

“Well, no one ever has accused me of getting tired of eating,” Kuryakin replied. “But that was my point. You seek variety in what you eat, and, from what I’ve observed, in your sexual partners. So, the problem with that view is that it invites a sort of _anything_   goes standard, doesn’t it? Oh wait — ” he said, pointing his again empty bottle towards Solo and smiling knowingly, “that is your principle — _always open to possibilities_   I believe you said.” He poured more vodka into the bottle, finding the task required more concentration than before. “I understand now. But, tell me, my friend — do you impose any limits on those possibilities? Mammals only for example?”

Solo made a sound deep in his throat. “Now, don’t tell me you’re starting to believe all the gossip around the office. Okay, yeah, I’d fuck a goat — but only if she’s pretty.”

“And willing,” Kuryakin reminded him.

“There. You see? I have my standards, and the reports of my depravity have been greatly exaggerated.”

“And I for one am thankful those standards haven’t fallen so low as to include Russians,” Kuryakin quipped and raised his bottle in mock salute.

“You’re not pretty enough,” Solo shot back, “though the hair is kinda cute.” Eyes twinkling with amusement, he leaned back and stretched his arms across the railing. “And how about you? Any limits or guidelines? Are you a mammals-only kind of guy?”

“Definitely,” Kuryakin nodded. “And two legs; well … fewer than three. The goat’s out. I’m throwing in my lot with the Workers, not the Peasants.”

“Ah, but two legs still leaves a wide variety to choose from.” Solo considered for a moment if he should ask the obvious, but he was really drunk so what the hell. “You said you grew up around men, that women were — what did you call it? — rare visitors. Trespassers. So? Ever do it with a guy?”

“I’ve been groped a time or two,” Kuryakin laughed, amazed that the voice he heard could possibly be his own. _Truth or dare_ , Solo had called it. At the time, Kuryakin hadn’t understood what that meant, but now he thought he did — it was a good old-fashioned pissing contest. Napoleon was trying to cow him into retreat, if not embarrass him, and Illya realized he was drunk enough to accept the challenge, even to enjoy the prospect of putting a look of surprise on his friend’s face. “I probably even groped back at some point in my youth, when adolescent hormones were raging. But you know me — I have two guiding principles: one — if you want a job done right, you have to do it yourself; and two — every man ought to do his own work.” He fortified himself with more vodka and forged ahead.

“Anything beyond mutual groping had to do with power, and abuse of power would have violated my Leninist purity. I wasn’t getting on my knees for anyone, and I knew enough Revolutionary history not to place my ‘assets’ in a vulnerable position controlled by the oppressed — not when they’re ‘armed to the teeth,’ as they say.” He hoped Napoleon was enjoying the effort he was making to entertain.

“As for something more … invasive — no, _nekogda._ As flawed as my experience with Sonja may have been, it confirmed the desirability of a woman’s body, a woman’s touch. I’ve never had any desire to change that opinion, or do that to a man. And I have even less desire to be someone’s ‘girlfriend.’ But, I expect your opinion is more urbane, more enlightened.” He leaned back to wait for Solo’s reply, then decided perhaps he’d better be as explicit as his partner had been. “Have _you_   ever done it with a man?”

“Once. Almost.” Solo leaned his head back and closed his eyes, catching the breeze. God, they _really_   were drunk to be discussing stuff like this. “I hate to disappoint you, but my experience is about as limited as yours. But there was this one time. In college. After a party. I was probably more drunk than I am now, if that’s possible. A friend of a friend drove me home. He was homosexual — I guessed as much, but he was a nice guy and we hung around in some of the same circles. I found out later he had a thing for me.

“Anyway, I was too drunk to walk straight so he hauled me up three flights of stairs to my apartment on the third floor. And once we got inside, he propositioned me. Well, it was a tad more subtle than that, but he made it clear that he wanted me to do him. Now, I’ve never been a big fan of anal sex — seems like more trouble and pain than it’s worth, especially when God created vaginas — but I was so wasted, I thought, _yeah, sure, why not?_   It wasn’t _my_   ass on the line and I guess there was a certain amount of curiosity involved. Would he feel any different than a woman?

“So I let him unzip my pants and I remember him going down on me, and to be frank, that’s pretty much the last thing I remember. He told me later that I came right there on the couch and then passed out cold and we were both pretty embarrassed by the whole incident. And after that, he avoided me and I avoided him and that pretty much was that.”

Kuryakin coughed and realized he was having trouble focusing — absorbing and retaining what he heard. If there were any Thrush agents in the neighborhood, he and Napoleon were doomed. “Actually, I’m not disappointed at all,” he said. “Relieved, maybe. You mentioned ossif — _office_ — gossip before. Now I know I can feel free to shoot anyone who spreads that particular rumor about us.”

Solo tipped his head back to see if Illya was laughing. “But I agree with you in concept, if not just in practice. I vastly prefer a woman as a sexual partner. Men, even homosexual ones, either want it or they don’t — and mostly, they — we — want it. Simple. No complexity, no challenge. Women are so much freer, more emotional, more giving and more willing to receive. When they climax, they let loose in a way I can’t imagine a man would. I’m glad I’m not a woman myself because I don’t know how they put up with us.”

Kuryakin looked into his bottle and reconsidered drinking more. “What do you mean about women putting up with us? Putting up with what in particular?”

“Ah, c’mon. Men are pain in the asses. You’ve heard our — _colleagues_ — talk around the office. They’re always griping about me coming on to the secretary pool — yeah, I know what they say — but just listen to _them._   This girl’s tits. That one’s ass. Christ. No wonder they can’t get laid.” Solo snapped off the cap of another beer. “I mean, sure I look. Who doesn’t? But you have to have more —” he gestured with his free hand, but the movement was sloppy “ — ‘finesse.’

“And once they get into bed — well, I’ve heard enough stories about Quick Draw McGraws from women that it makes me wonder if any poor girl ever gets satisfaction she doesn’t provide for herself.”

“Oh,” Kuryakin said, rising unsteadily, wondering who the hell Quick Draw McGraw was. “I thought you meant we aren’t expressive enough in bed.”

“That, too,” Solo replied.

Kuryakin really needed to visit the head. He looked out into the quiet marina and considered peeing over the side, but decided it wouldn’t do — _too Russian, too proletarian._   Too much the thoughtless male attending only to his own immediate needs. He ducked into the cabin to attend to business and returned to the deck with some thoughts swirling in his head. “You know,” he said, standing over the cockpit, “perhaps not for you, but for some — ok, for me — it’s one of the drawbacks of the one night stand. Intimacy — that’s not something I can share with a stranger. And while I certainly would defer to the master,” he indicated Solo, “I don’t think women ever have satisfaction without intimacy. Which brings us full circle. The waitress in the restaurant — Susan — wouldn’t have been satisfied by my company.”

“Well, there’s satisfied — and there’s _satisfied_. Which one are we talking about?”

“Both, actually, or all.” Once again the alcohol lured Kuryakin to ignore his inclination to silence. “Look, there are things I feel comfortable doing with a woman I know, a woman I have a history with, that I’ve been to bed with before that I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing with a stranger. It’s not so much _things_ or actions,” he groped for words, “but an openness, an honesty that makes a connection, provides the intimacy. Sorry. I can’t explain.”

“Well, like what?” Solo asked, genuinely perplexed. He was trying to imagine what he couldn’t do with a woman he’d just met as compared to a woman he’d known for a while. “I suppose I wouldn’t let a stranger tie me to the bedpost until I knew exactly which side she’s on. But other than that — ”

“Oh, you would think of that,” Kuryakin shook his head.

“What’s the matter? You don’t go in for that sort of thing”” Solo teased.

“I told you — I learned early not to mix business with pleasure. I spend too much time tied up on the job to consider it part of a pleasurable experience.”

“Ever tried it?” Solo asked slyly. “For pleasure, I mean.”

“No,” Kuryakin said emphatically. “And I prefer to keep it that way. Along with blindfolds, handcuffs, whips, intimidation and drugs. Except for alcohol, of course.” He searched on the floor for the vodka bottle. The conversation was becoming too much about himself. If he was going to engage in drunken self-analysis, he preferred to do it properly — alone and with the support of centuries of Russian fatalism. Napoleon would never let anything Illya said go, never let him indulge in the pleasure and comfort he found in the darkness of his soul. Never understand that some truths only appeared painful through an outsider’s eyes. For that reason alone, they were best left unshared. Kuryakin didn’t resent that. It was enough that they tolerated the fundamental differences between them; they didn’t have to understand or approve of them. “But I have no doubt that you _have_ tried it — for pleasure. You being open to possibilities and all,” he reflected the question.

“Sure,” Solo said shrugging. “Nothing serious — no whips and chains or anything like that — I’m not into pain. Like you said, we see enough of that in our business. If I want pain, I can just go take a stroll over to Thrale and Usher’s unarmed, and I’m sure I’ll be accommodated.

“But under the right circumstances, the loss of control can be intensely exciting.” He drained his beer bottle and gestured with it. “That’s your problem, you know. You need to hold onto too much control.” Solo got to his feet again, swaying a little more than he had previously. “And in sex, like everything else we do in our lives, my friend, risk is everything.”

“I wasn’t aware I had a problem,” Kuryakin said cautiously. If Solo was about to explain to him — however seriously — everything that was _wrong_   with his life, the Russian wanted to be prepared not to be provoked into a reply he might regret.

“Oh, sorry,” Solo said, repressing a burp. He headed for the cabin doorway, in search of the head and maybe one more beer. “I thought I caught something about intimacy before. My mistake.”

“I said intimacy isn’t something I can share with a stranger,” Kuryakin called after Solo’s retreating figure. “I never said I wanted to. Or that I consider that a problem.” He was on his feet now, following, angry at himself for feeling the need to explain himself, but feeling it all the same. “I said it was a drawback of one night stands — the woman is guaranteed to be deprived of the intimacy you and I agree she most likely wants. _You_ might have been satisfied to see me take the waitress home and screw her into the mattress or into an alley wall or a park bench. But _she_ wouldn’t have been satisfied, because when I walked away, there wouldn’t be even an empty spot left — nothing for her to miss or remember fondly.” He was too drunk, beyond the reach of caution and the control Solo accused him of needing to hang onto. The words were simply generating themselves and throwing themselves into the night, never giving him the chance to know or even consider how much truth they told, or how many lies. “Sometimes I can make the effort — appear to offer more, but not tonight. Tonight even I would have walked away unsatisfied. _Don’t slam the door in a woman’s face,_   you said. You were talking about physiology — orgasm.  You don’t have any idea of the kind of doors I can close. And even I’m not that big a son of a bitch. Not when I can help it, anyway.”

“Are you saying I am?” Solo called from the open door of the head. He wasn’t angry; he just wanted to establish what the hell was eating at his friend.

Kuryakin shook his head, then realized Solo couldn’t see the gesture. “No.” _Why does he think that?_   “I’m saying I prefer not to be one myself. I’m saying I would have been, had I given the waitress any reason to believe otherwise. I know myself well enough to know that.

“You asked me before what I’m looking for — _one woman, a wife_. No. But I know _you_   want those things. And I know you’ll look at me as if I had two heads when I tell you I don’t. I don’t want a wife. I don’t want children. I don’t want _anyone_   to be that … close to me. And don’t think that’s some sort of self-punishment. Alone for me is not lonely. It’s my natural state. And I’m not saying that out of ignorance. I know what it’s like to have that connection, that bond with someone. _You’re_   that close to me, and I don’t regret that. But that’s different. What’s between us has been forged in some terrible fires.”

The sound of urination ceased and Solo appeared, zipping up his fly. He leaned against the cabin wall and sighed.

“Ya finished?”

“Oh yes,” Kuryakin replied, wishing he had had the sense to be _finished_   long before. The only saving grace was that Solo was probably as drunk as he was.

“Okay, first of all, I wouldn’t have wanted to see you screw her in an alley or a park bench. I wouldn’t do that myself and you’ve lived with me enough years to know that.” Solo rolled his eyes, correcting himself before Illya tried. “All right, I’ve done an elevator and a shower stall or two, but that was at the lady’s request. Susie — Susan? That’s her name, right? — didn’t look like that type of girl.

“Second, the plain fact is, you don’t like losing control. That’s why you remember that time with Sonja’s father so vividly. He had a gun on you but you just couldn’t stop and I’ll bet there’s a little thrill in there, even if you don’t want to admit it. Someone should hold a gun on you — I’ll be glad to provide the service. You might find that liberating.” His mouth quirked into an evil  grin as he opened the refrigerator door to look inside. “Maybe I'll ask Angelique to take you on.” He didn’t wait for Illya to respond to that one nor look up from his rummaging; he could predict the reaction without seeing it.

“Third, there’s nothing wrong with being a loner. No one is telling you to change. I’m satisfied with you just the way you are. And I’m sure you’re satisfied with yourself — most of the time. But you remembered that waitress’ name — and I’m sorry, but that’s telling.” Retrieving a bottle, Solo straightened. “You didn’t care, but you care enough to notice her name tag. And don’t give me some bullshit about tradecraft.”

Solo grabbed a spare opener from the table and popped the cap. “You don’t mind intimacy as much as you think. I should know. And if you can live with me, there’s no good reason you couldn’t live with someone else one day. And make her happy.” He took a sip. “And I don’t believe for one minute that ‘doing the job’ yourself is better than being in bed with a woman. It may be convenient — it  may  be easier — but it isn’t better.”

“I didn’t say it was better than being with a woman,” Kuryakin frowned and turned away.

“Well, if you don’t want to sleep around,” Solo said as he headed for the ladder again, “and you don’t want a single woman, and you’re not homosexual and you’re not into goats, what other choice is there?” At the top step, he pivoted, “And if we’re talking celibacy here, I hope you’re stocked up on lots of clean bed sheets.”

“As opposed to letting your dates do all the laundry?” Kuryakin quipped from below, then followed up the ladder.

“Oh, good one,” Solo observed, but he wasn’t laughing. He dropped back down on the bench. “Fine. Eat your heart out. At least I admit to my weakness.”

“I’m not eating my heart out,” Kuryakin joined him. “And I’m not living a celibate life, or trying to. I’m just making choices. Like tonight. You’re right, I did notice her name, and I did notice that she seemed like a nice person — not ‘that type of girl’ as you say. Perhaps if she had been, I might have made a different choice.” Somewhere far out at sea, lightning flashed silently, briefly illuminating the horizon in fleeting snapshots of the world beneath the blackness. “As for you admitting to your weakness,” the Russian said at last, then shook his head. “I’m not so sure you do.

“You talk about possibilities and risk. And while you say it’s not all about sex, at the same time you admit that the possibility of anything more is illusory for us. You’re right, of course. And for me, that means that I decline the invitation of the nice waitress, because even if I tell her honestly, there is no tomorrow, not even a call, and she accepts those terms — somewhere inside her is a spark of belief that that possibility for something more really does exist, no matter how remote, how unlikely, no matter what I say. That’s why she takes the risk. And it’s why you take the risk.

“You say if it’s good and mutually satisfying for a few hours — a day, a night, a week — it’s enough and doesn’t leave you worse off than you started. But it does, and that’s why you have to do it again and again, day after day. You’re so … hungry… for something that can’t be there, that it’s painful to look at. You bury your disappointment in numbers and disguise your real hunger beneath the rubric of variety. Every time you take the risk and come away empty, it makes the hunger just a bit worse, just a bit farther out of reach. It’s not my business with whom or what you sleep, where, how often, or with what result. But, you’re my … brother, Napoleon. When I ignore this, I might as well be turning my face away from a bleeding wound. I’m not the one who’s unhappy. When my bed is empty, it isn’t lonely. You can’t allow yours to be empty.”

“Bleeding wound, huh?” Solo said softly. He’d expected that Illya would accuse him of being an adrenaline junkie, which Solo knew was true. Or maybe of even being an uncaring, manipulative Don Juan, which wasn’t true, but Solo had heard it whispered or hinted at by others so often, he no longer cared.

But not this. He’d felt the words viscerally, like a sharp twinge in his gut, as if Illya had actually pressed a nerve, which, in some sense, he had. “Well,” Solo added, exhaling the word deeply. He turned on the bench, tugged at the beer bottle and looked back out to sea. Apparently, they’d drunk themselves past their usual and carefully tended limit on personal territory. Beyond this were places they’d never ventured before.

“And if I contradict you, if I say I’m relatively content, that I really am getting everything I need, at least for now, then I’m taking advantage of all the women I’ve gone to bed with. So: weak and needy, or cold-hearted user — nice choice. Like choosing between being shot or hung.

“But let’s say you’re right. That I am lonely, that I do have an empty place inside — a wound — and I am trying to compensate for what our profession demands of us, then so what? Maybe that’s just human nature, a normal response. What? And you’re not human? You’re stronger than that? Above it all? Beyond it all? You don’t need anything or anybody? Nothing touches you?”

Solo turned and looked at his friend. “Tell me that deep down inside, you don’t crave a little warmth, sharing a little joy, a little pleasure, a little connection. That you don’t need to feel, or ever _will_   need to feel, someone respond to you, not like a killing machine, but like a man, like a goddamn human being.

“You said you might have acted differently to that waitress if she was ‘another’ kind of girl. You mean a whore. You would have slept with her if she was a whore.” Solo clucked his tongue against his teeth and shook his head, disgusted. “You’d rather go to bed with a woman whom you pay, a woman who won’t actually climax for you, with you. They don’t, you know. They fake it. They fake everything. It’s all a sham. Ever talk to a working girl? I have. Know what they think of us — of you — when they sleep with you? It isn’t pretty.”

“I’ve talked to them,” Kuryakin replied calmly. “We’ve been to enough brothels together, you and I — one might even say you expanded my horizons in that area. I have no illusions. As I said, everyone gets what they bargain for.” He shifted on the bench, perhaps into a more defensive posture. “I’m not pretending to buy love. Or pretending to give it. As for what their opinions may be of their customers — of us, of me — ” he shrugged, “that’s Capitalism for you. Why shouldn’t they laugh, hold us in contempt or enjoy their power?  

“But I don’t live on a steady diet of prostitutes. And I never implied that the waitress should have been a whore — just a woman who didn’t have that same hunger written on her face that I could see on yours. Just a fun-loving girl. Like my little Sonja, except without the father.” He unscrewed the cap from the vodka and drank directly from the bottle. The warmed liquid was harsh like the truth that remained to be spoken.

“The question was rhetorical, but you’re right — I don’t need anyone or anything. Nothing does touch me. Not the way you mean, and I know that has always bothered you. You don’t _want_ to believe it, so we joke about it. But it’s true — like it or not. If that makes me a ‘killing machine,’ it’s all the more reason for me to be careful about the women I connect with. They don’t need me to kill their hopes.”

“We’re both killing machines,” Solo said. “They built us. You know that as well as I do. I said don’t you like to be treated _as something other_   than what we must be in our profession.”

Sighing, he leaned back against the rail again, tipping his head back. God, he had such a headache. “As far as what you’re saying to me, I don’t know how to answer. You make me sound pathetic, all bleeding wounds, desperate for someone to love and for someone to love me. Well, I don’t feel desperate. I like sex — I'll not deny it. And women, apparently, like having sex with me. I don’t drag them into bed. Most of the time, I don’t even bring the subject up. It just happens. Do I like all the women I go to bed with? Sure. And I hope they like me. Do I love every one? Probably not in the way you would define it. Does that make me a shallow cad? I dunno. I feel like I’m damned if I do here, and damned if I don’t.

“The reality that I know is that I have lots of different relationships with a lot of different women. Some are one-night stands or fleeting affairs — sure. Sometimes because of choice, occasionally theirs; sometimes by circumstance. Some are friendships — and some are long friendships. And some, like Clara and Mara, are long term, and yes, I loved them deeply. And some, like Angelique, I admit, I slept with just for the challenge, or just for the hell of it.”  

 His annoyance spent for the moment, Solo looked at Kuryakin. “My friend, you are looking for solutions that you can understand, that you can wrap that beautiful brain of yours around, like your experiments in the lab. Human beings are messier than that. It’s not always either/or; sometimes, it’s both. I’m not actively searching for someone permanent, but if it comes along, I’d be open to it. Most women recognize what they’re getting when they go out with me. Those that don’t or can’t, I leave alone.”

Kuryakin sat quietly for several long minutes, listening to the sounds of the night — the dinghy rubbing against the fenders, the bell-like ringing of the rigging against the mast, the rhythmic crash of the breakers outside the harbor — thinking about his friend’s words. Discretion advised him: let it go. They were both unconscionably drunk, had both already voiced thoughts best forgotten in the morning, thoughts that strayed outside of the territory they normally considered ‘fair.’ They were always honest with one another, or so Kuryakin believed; yet honesty allowed for thoughts better left unspoken. But Napoleon had been the one to extend the invitation: _Wanna to get drunk?_   with all its inherent implications.

“ _Nesyosh’ chepukhu,”_ Kuryakin said at last, discretion ignored. “What a load of crap. Listen to yourself. You say I’m looking for simple solutions. But, you’re looking for rationalizations. You want it both ways. In one breath you say, ‘it’s not just sex,’ — and you say it as if you’re defending yourself. Then in the next breath you say you don’t want or need anything more — ‘why should it have to be about anything more?’ you ask. And again, you say it as if there’s an accusation to defend against. And you rationalize both by saying that it’s the woman’s choice — you merely offer. Oh, no,” he corrected himself, “that’s right — you don’t even bring it up; _they_ do. You’re just answering their wishes — but you’re not a social worker.

“Well, if you’re so damn comfortable with it, why did you follow me out of the restaurant? To make sure I didn’t evade your critical judgment of my behavior toward the waitress? Oh, I know,” Kuryakin waved a dismissive hand in Solo’s general direction, “you weren’t being judgmental, merely commenting. At home we call that _samokritika_ — the weekly ‘voluntary’ submission to your comrades’ _comments_   on your failures. You criticize me, because my decision makes you uncomfortable with your own.” He shook his head. “Not uncomfortable — too strong a word — _aware_ , of what you’re rationalizing away.  Perhaps you’re right; perhaps all of these women want nothing more from you than transient gratification; I’ll give you that. But three things say that _youo_ want more: Mara, Clara, and your wife.” He hesitated and ran a hand awkwardly back through his hair, pushing it away from his sweat-damp forehead. “Want to talk about what’s telling? Think about that. You do hunger for that connection. And when you’ve had it, you’ve lost it.”

Solo sighed. That last remark hit home, and he wondered if Illya realized how deeply. But then again, he couldn’t argue the point. He _had_ lost both Clara and Mara because of his commitment to U.N.C.L.E. and though he still felt bad about both, he’d resigned himself to the situation. He’d learned after Clara how to better manage his affairs, and Mara, well, Capsule B had complicated matters, making it an unusual case. As for his wife — he didn’t want to think about her. Ever. He’d buried her another lifetime ago when he was too young and stupid to live himself.

So now, he didn’t even know where to begin to answer. _You want it both ways._   Ah, yeah, he wanted to say. Because that’s the way things were. It was like Illya hadn’t even heard what he’d said about it not being a matter of either/or. It was like explaining the color blue to a blind man. “So wait: I came with you in order to criticize you? Jesus, then why are we talking so much about my sex life? Let’s talk about yours.”

Kuryakin shook his head and stood up unsteadily. “No! Didn’t you hear what I said? You want to talk about me to make yourself feel better about … you. You want to find my sex life … deficient …  to convince yourself that you’re content. It’s not _about_   me. All I wanted to do was leave the restaurant. Do you want to know what I really think?” He didn’t wait for a response to the rhetorical question. “Before we started this conversation — before _you_ started this conversation — I really didn’t think all that much about your personal life. What I said was that you deflect the discussion to me. I won’t play that game.”

“Fine,” Solo said with a shrug. “I came along because you looked lonely.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Well, you _looked_ it. And not because of the waitress — forget about her. You just looked like you could use the company. You needed the company. There: I said it. So get even more angry with me.”

Kuryakin opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again without saying a word. He wasn’t angry, merely frustrated by a conversation that seemed to have taken on a twisted life of its own. _Too much alcohol,_   he thought. Drunk and happy, drunk and morose — either would work. But drunk and confrontational was a bad combination, particularly when the confrontation wasn’t about fact but about the basic differences that made each of them who they were.

“The truth is,” Solo went on, “you don’t really care about who I sleep with and when. To you, all the sex is a symptom, not the disease. Need — needing someone — that’s the disease. Relationships are a weakness. You think they make me weak, vulnerable. And if I’m vulnerable, then being my partner, so are you. And that’s what you fear more than anything: to need someone. Even the thought makes you cringe.”

“I don’t fear it, because I don’t, — need someone,” Kuryakin said calmly, trying to find truth somewhere on the horizon. “But you do; you’re right about that. I hadn’t meant to imply that is a weakness, but I suppose, I do see it that way. It doesn’t change anything.”

“Now that’s the load of crap,” Solo said, but he was smiling. “I don’t know who did it — who hurt you, abandoned you — sometime, somewhere, but someone did. And you weren’t just disappointed; you were devastated.”

“Wonderful,” Kuryakin laughed, “you have a promising career as a pop psychologist. Your first book can be _The Women of Thrush — Evil as a Balm For Psychic Pain._    Serena can join you on the book tour. Angelique can appear with you on _The Today Show._   Only they’d better be prepared for a fast cut to commercial.”

“And apparently you have a future as a stand up comic,” Solo observed although he wasn’t angry or even annoyed. Illya’s response meant he’d come close.

Kuryakin sat back down and rested his head against the sharp edge of the deck. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, Napoleon. You’d be disappointed.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Solo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Tell me something, truthfully: what’s sex really like for you? How do you see it? What’s the best time you can remember?”

“You’re incorrigible, you know that,” Kuryakin said tiredly, eyes closed. “There’s more in life than sex. Not all joys and sorrows are linked with sex. Certainly neither my happiest nor … ” he paused, shaking his head, searching for a word that fit without being weighed down by subjective meaning, “… worst moments have involved sex. It’s just … fucking biology.” The Russian laughed at his own joke. But, knowing Solo was not to be dissuaded, he searched for an honest reply. “Sex is … escape, forgetting … everything. For just those moments, there’s nothing else. For those moments, the world is … right, perfect even. The operative word being momentary.”

“That sounds like more than simple biology.”

“No. That’s all it is — Nature’s grand design, or grand illusion, to assure perpetuation of the species. Religion, Art, Literature all try to make it more, but it’s not. It’s just … fucking biology. But to assure survival of the bipedal human, with its long gestation and totally dependent infants, we have … relationships. Without which, no one survives. And even they’re no guarantee.”

Solo shook his head. “Politics. And science. You reduce everything to politics and science.”

 _And you reduce it all to sex_ ,  Kuryakin thought, _so we’re even_.

“Yeah, there’s more to life than sex,” Solo went on. “I wouldn’t be an agent if I didn’t think that. And yeah, sometimes it’s momentary. But still — ” He leaned back, took a deep breath of the sea air and closed his eyes. “But on some nights. Ah, on those rare and beautiful nights, when she’s willing and interested and soft and warm and gorgeous. And you have more than a few minutes, more than even hours, and everything’s clicking just right, and your bodies are in sync and you can feel her breathing, and her heart’s beating right up against yours and you’re inside her, really deep inside her, and you can feel every breath, every pulse, every heartbeat, every sigh. And you can feel her coming, and then you’re coming, too — it’s like that old cliché — that you really do feel like you’re touching something, some essential part of that other person.”

He opened his eyes and looked at Kuryakin. “And I don’t care if you think that’s all a load of crap. I enjoy those moments and I’m not afraid to admit it. And if I need it to keep me going and sane, so what? We’re in a tough game here. We’re wiping blood off our hands every day. Sure, we’re saving the world, but we’re saving _people_ too. Being with women, and yeah, having sex with them, keeps me grounded, connected to the rest of the human race. Go ahead and laugh. But there’s a purpose for that kind of pleasure too.”

“I’m not laughing,” Kuryakin said.

“And by the way, I’m not judging you. I like you too much for that.”

The Russian squinted at him. “Perhaps it’s just being drunk, but I could swear … you’re implying that I am. Judging you. And, by extension, that I don’t like you, don’t respect you. Is that what you think?”

“No,” Solo said wearily, “I don’t. But sometimes, I think you like me not for who I am, but in spite of who I am.”

Kuryakin sat in stunned silence, absorbing the emotion in the simple words and feeling the weight of responsibility for it. “Napoleon,” he said at last, “I wouldn’t be a friend if I didn’t like you for who you are — even where we disagree. I’m sorry you feel you have to ask.”

Solo shrugged. “You said you didn’t need anyone, remember? You don’t want anyone. You’ve been arguing that to me all night.”

“No, no, no,” Kuryakin chided him. “Liking you for who you are — as opposed to in spite of same — is an entirely different matter from needing you. And when I said I don’t _want_ anyone, I was speaking of a different sort of relationship. One inevitably involving dependency.”

“Well, I depend upon you,” Solo said, getting to his feet. It was time to visit the head again. As he began to move, he wondered if the boat was rocking quite as much as it seemed to be. “And by the nature of our job and our working relationship, you’re forced to depend upon me.” Solo cocked his head as he passed by. “A lot. And your safety, your life, depends upon a man—” he leaned in briefly “— who _rationalizes._ ” Solo shook his head as he eased himself down the ladder. “That’s gotta make you uncomfortable.”

“You know what I meant,” Kuryakin called after him, “… emotional dependency. _Don’t feel complete when you’re not with me._ That sort of thing. Damn straight we depend on one another professionally — and beyond. Friends. Brothers. _Tovarishchi._   But not lovers. That’s where all these other relationships you’re talking about are different. The expectations, the possibilities between a man and woman — of emotional dependency — no matter how many warnings you post up front. You _can_   hear me, can’t you?”

“I’m trying not to,” Solo called back, teasing him. There was the sound of the head door closing.

Kuryakin leaned forward and pressed his hands hard against his temples. There was going to be one hell of a price tag on this night.

In a minute or two, Solo appeared, coming up the ladder with two more beers. He passed one to Kuryakin. _Like we’re not drunk enough already,_   Solo thought. “Okay, there’s something I don’t understand. Before, earlier in the evening, you said you can’t be intimate with strangers — which insinuates that you _can_   be intimate with someone. Yet you say you don’t want anyone. That doesn’t quite match up to me.”

“Why not?” Kuryakin took the beer without a second thought. “We’ve demonstrated tonight that we can drink ourselves senseless, but it doesn’t mean we’re going to want to do that often. Yes, I can share intimacy with a woman; I have done. It’s very pleasant, up to a point.” He took a long drink of the beer, oblivious to its temperature. “But you and I probably aren’t talking about the same thing when we use the term intimate.”

“Apparently not,” Solo agreed. He lowered himself back down on the bench as he opened the beer. “But before the etymology debate begins, explain to me what ‘up to a point’ means first.”

“That’s putting the chicken before the horse, isn’t it?” Kuryakin asked.

“Stop with the Russian immigrant routine. You’re trying to distract me from my question.”

“Not my best effort, I admit. Look. I’m not talking about anything physical or sexual. I mean, — of course, intimacy becomes a part of a sexual relationship, but it isn’t itself physical. It’s allowing someone to know you, and allowing yourself to know them. It creates a connection. And yes, it’s wonderful, liberating, up to a point. But it’s rather like a drug. At first, a little satisfies, but then, they want more, and more. What makes you think, feel, react, fear. Where you come from, what made you who and what you are. And they don’t just want to know; they want to _understand._   They want your … life. Even the parts you might not want yourself. And they want to give you theirs. And depend on you to understand them.” He pointed his bottle in Solo’s direction. “I’ll wager you’re very good at that last bit. Accepting what women offer you of themselves. But tell me — what do you give them of you?” He shook his head. “You accuse me of being reticent about myself; you’re no better. You just replace my silence with a lot of words that don’t say much. Of course, when you’re with each woman for just a night or a week, she won’t ever find that out.”

“Well, first: I’m not with most of the women I meet for just one night. True, there have been times, mostly during a mission for whatever reason, but there are lots of women I continue to know and remain friends with. Some of them are around Headquarters. I don’t have to name names: you and I see them all the time.”

“I said a night or a week,” Kuryakin corrected him. “And I’ll grant that you may know more about them, but do you really know them? Do they know you? Even those in Headquarters?”

Solo looked up at Kuryakin. “I don’t know everything about you and yet, I do feel I know you. And you know me. Most of what we’re saying to each other tonight, we knew deep down already. Or at least, we knew what we needed to know. Am I right?”

“Absolutely,” Kuryakin agreed. “But you and I have shared a lot of experience; some of it of the most extreme sort. We’ve spent a lot of time together, seen one another in nearly every possible situation and condition, seen how we act, how we react and think.”

“Well, sure, _now_ …”

“And even before we ever met, you and I had a common bond. We knew something about one another simply because we are U.N.C.L.E. agents, and because no matter where we started, we all followed the last part of the journey together. Not even in Headquarters do the women you date understand that, or what it means.”

“April does,” Solo said quietly.

Kuryakin waved his hand as if batting away an annoying insect. “I knew you’d say that. You want to use the one exception to avoid acknowledging the overall truth. Let’s do the math.” He looked to his left: “April — ” then to his right, “ — 400 others. The equation doesn’t quite balance.”

“Nevertheless, you object to my relationship with her, too. If you were being consistent, you wouldn’t.”

“That’s a different issue. My _objections_ are about the job — hers and yours. You can’t be her boss and her lover. It’s a conflict of interest. But as long as you want to talk about April, fine. She exactly proves my point.  You’re with her because you want that one connection, that real intimacy and understanding. And you can have it with her. She’s smart and beautiful and she understands, because she lives with the same realities you do.”  _Let’s not detail all the obstacles,_ Kuryakin thought. How one or both of you is going to be hurt.

“Yes, she does. And part of that reality is that our relationship can’t be a true romance — not with our jobs and our commitment — not to mention our boss. That’s why April and I remain just friends. It has to simply be what it is and we’ve accepted that. Now, I agree that intimacy is connecting at some fundamental level. But it’s a matter of degree: one can connect profoundly, but in a narrow, limited way. Think of it as depth not breadth. I can guess from what you say that you would think of ‘limited intimacy’ as an oxymoron — ”

“ _Limited intimacy_ — there’s a concept. Right up there with _limited nuclear proliferation._ ” Kuryakin sighed.

“See? I knew you’d say that. But I still think it can be experienced that way. You’re asking what I can give them of myself.” Solo took a deep breath and another long swig, and contemplated the bottle that remained in his hand. “Not as much as I would prefer, I’ll admit. I’d be a piss-poor agent, now, if I was walking around like an open book. Then you would have reason to be wary of being my partner.”

Kuryakin looked back to the stars, as if he might find answers in their patterns of brightness, color and disposition. “Ironically, I wish it were just about sex. Then you wouldn’t be in this limbo, where you want it to mean something, but not too much.  Just a little, _limited_ something, to justify it, to humanize it. But not so much that you’re actually tied to it.”

“But that’s how it has to be — at least for me,” Solo pointed out. “It’s not ideal of course, but for now, with our job, it’s the best I can do. Someday, I’ll be free to love more completely, and things may be different. For now, I give what I can. Listening is a form of giving too. Responding. Empathizing. Satisfying — and not just sexually. Expressing desire, joy, passion, sharing emotion. Making an effort to make love to them in a way that suits their individual needs. Letting them know when they’ve made me happy, or simply feel good.”

“So, nothing of yourself, really.”

“That _is_ myself. How one interacts, communicates is who one is.”

“Passive communication. You’re a … a mirror of their needs: their need to be desired, to be desirable, to be understood.”

“Not a mirror. A companion.”

Kuryakin bit back a reply. _Companion_. Caretakers were companions. Dogs and cats were companions. The regrettably talkative seatmate on a crowded plane was a companion. “I said, intimacy _is_ about knowledge. Not — ‘he sleeps with a gun under his pillow’ knowledge, but how you feel, what it means to you when you push your hand under that pillow and it doesn’t connect with steel.”

“It is about knowledge, but not about facts.”

“The example I gave you has to do with emotion, not facts; that was my point. Why do you overlook it, if I argue in favor of emotion? It doesn’t fit your preconception that I run from all things emotional?”  

“And I like to think that internal part of me is not only defined by where I put my gun.”

“And I’d like to think that it’s not defined purely by where you put your penis.”

“That’s it,” Solo said, getting up abruptly. He’d had enough. “I know we’re drunk but that, my friend, is over the line. I think it’s time we both went to bed.” Solo began to gather up the various bottles still scattered about the cockpit.

“I’m sorry,” Kuryakin said, honestly. “That was uncalled for, and I apologize. But what you said earlier about prostitutes having contempt for their customers, about there being something inherently demeaning about having sex with a woman who doesn’t intend to or won’t derive pleasure from the act — it bothers me. For one thing, this boat suggests otherwise, or did you forget? But now when I think back on it, in light of what you said tonight, it makes a different sort of sense. Then it was a bet — a rather foolish one, I thought. But tonight, you’ve repeated the importance you attach to the conditions of that bet, several times. I’m sorry, Napoleon, but it sounds very much as if you’re depending on your ability to satisfy a woman — women — to define your own worth.” He looked at Solo with a frown. “You can chuck me overboard now.”

“I should, you know,” Solo said, his arms filled with the empty bottles. “Look: It’s not my need; it’s my preference. I prefer to satisfy the women I sleep with. I prefer not to be the only one who’s having a good time. Why does that bother you? I don't know what your personal experience is with women — you don’t tell me a helluva a lot anyway — and I don’t care, but —”

“And why should you?”

“Well, you know just about every damn thing about me — including April. You should never have found out about that.”

Exasperation told in Kuryakin’s voice. “I’ve never asked you anything. If you’ve told me things, I’ve assumed … never mind. But April. Surely you can’t hold that against me. I needed help, at least a place to hide, so I came to your hotel room. I didn’t honestly expect to find even _you_ there, let alone April. And I’ve always tried to treat it as if I _didn’t_   know.”

“I know,” Solo said, letting out a deflating sigh. “And I don’t blame you. It was an accident, pure and simple. You didn’t expect us and we didn’t expect you.” Solo shook his head. “But don’t you see? You do with me what you are accusing me of doing with women — only without the sex. You hold yourself back. You don’t share a lot about your own life, your own history.”

“Nor do you. But again — we’ve learned everything we need to know about one another under fire.”

“You’ve never even told me if that story about the way your mother died was true.”

Kuryakin pulled back slightly, resisting the urge to stand up and walk away. _I did,_   he thought. _You simply didn’t like the answer._

“But it doesn’t matter,” Solo continued. “It has never mattered. We connect in another way. You’ll argue to me it’s because we’re both agents, and I suppose that’s true as far as it goes. But it’s not just that. There’s something else that’s ... indefinable.”

 _, then_ , Kuryakin thought, the truth that had been fueling the building quarrel. “You’re right, there is something else, something … subjective. There always has been, almost from the beginning. A recognition, of some part of ourselves or perhaps some missing part. I called you brother before, but you’re more than that; we’re closer than brothers. And when we can’t understand — really understand, not just accept — some fundamental difference between us, we’re … _I’m_   afraid of losing that connection.

“You said it doesn’t matter what I have or haven’t told you. We agree, because intimacy isn’t about facts.” Kuryakin’s voice was quiet, his speech slow and careful. “When you were in that warehouse, trapped — I had no idea how badly injured — because you had pushed me to safety, and the closest I could get to you was to reach out and grasp your hand — in that space, it was as if Death had a grip on you, and the only thing that could keep Death from taking you was for me to hold on, to keep you connected with Life. You asked me to talk about my family, insisted that I tell you things that would make you listen; I did. I told you, uncensored, everything as I remembered it, because I wasn’t really remembering; I was reliving it. And when the rescue team arrived and pulled me out of that space, and I felt your hand pulled out of mine, it was my brother’s hand … again, and I’d lost him … them …  to Death because I made a human mistake. My mistake, but I survived. And you were in the grip of Death because of me.”

Solo sucked in a deep breath, so deep you could hear the sound of the air being drawn in. What Illya said was sincere — even heartfelt. _I’m afraid of losing that connection. Afraid_. Solo had no doubt of that. Illya’s objections to Solo’s relationships had nothing to do with jealousy. It stemmed from fear. Wariness. Distrust of what might happen, what could happen to one or both of them. Separately or together.

But it was nevertheless confusing and even infuriating as well.

“I believe you,” Solo said. “I believed you then, while I was trapped. But then, tell me this tovarishch: if you value the connection between us — and I have absolutely no doubt that you do  — then why the hell did you lie to me afterward and tell me you made the story up? I knew you didn’t — couldn’t. No one would make up a story like that, even you. When a man saves your life  — and you’ve saved mine plenty of times so there’s no outstanding debt — shouldn’t you at least show him the courtesy of not fucking with his mind? This is what I meant by holding yourself back. I don’t tell you everything, but I don’t lie to you either. To others, maybe. But not to you.”

“Good question,” Kuryakin said. “You always have good questions; always. And a lot of them. That was part of it; I didn’t want those questions. And I certainly didn’t want you to carry that around as a true story. I didn’t want it between us.

“That was a long time ago; we hadn’t been working together very long. What I realized that day was just how close you were to me. But I didn’t know then, really, whether I was as close to you. You have, as you say, so many _profound_   friendships. What was unique for me, might not have been for you. I suppose there was safety in the _status quo._   I didn’t want it to affect your opinion of me.”

“It didn’t occur to you that lying to me might affect my opinion of you more?” Solo shook his head. “For years, I have carried the true story around anyway, and the lie along with it.”

Kuryakin raised his eyebrows. “Apparently that did not occur to me. I suppose I weighed the options. Lying is part of our profession, and I was rather accustomed to people assuming I was lying about a lot of things. All the time. But I wasn’t accustomed to anyone feeling sorry for me. About anything. And that was important to me. I particularly didn’t want you feeling sorry for me or mistaking a fact for a vulnerability that didn’t exist. I assumed you would forget it, or remember simply being angry with me for making it up. I told you to believe what you wanted, and I didn’t consider that to be a lie."

“That was evasion. The lie came before.”

 “I am sorry.”

 _Mistake a fact for a vulnerability that didn’t exist. Sure._   Solo turned that phrase over in his mind. Illya was desperately afraid of something else, too: of appearing vulnerable. Appearing, because he would never allow himself to admit to feeling or _being_   vulnerable. He feared it more than anything else, even death. And maybe fear was the wrong word: contempt. He had contempt for it — for appearing, feeling, and most of all, actually being.

Which was why Solo’s relationships and what he did with the women within those relationships bothered Kuryakin so much. Vulnerability came with risk. But for Solo, risk was what made life worth living. It was what he valued. Risk was everything.

“Remember what I said before?” Solo asked softly, “about being my friend in spite of who I am? It’s true. And in the reverse, too, whether we like to recognize it or not. But that says who we are, that we are both able to look beyond our differences, and we are friends _because_ of who we are as well.”

“Does this mean you’re not going to throw me overboard?” Kuryakin asked. “In spite of the fact that I’m a lying Commie who sometimes prefers his own company to that of a random waitress?”

“I guess so,” Solo replied with a theatrical sigh. “But I’ll sleep on it. Maybe I’ll change my mind in the morning.” Descending the ladder once again, he deposited the bottles in the trash container in the galley below.

“The morning will be too late,” Kuryakin said stretching the kinks out of his neck and shoulders. “In the morning all this can be relegated to an alcoholic haze. Throw me now or forever hold your peace — or is it piece? Makes something of a difference doesn’t it?”

“I’ll hold both, okay?” Solo called back from below. “Now I’m going to bed. I suggest you do the same — before you _fall_ overboard.”

Kuryakin came down the ladder carefully. “I’ll have you know, I’m still an officer in the Soviet Navy. Falling overboard is _not_   what we do. And you’ll never get me to say otherwise.”

“Good,” Solo replied, already in one of the bunks, one arm thrown across his eyes. “I don’t feel like fishing anyone out of the drink at three a.m.” He’d kicked off his shoes but hadn’t bothered with the rest of his clothes. He was still feeling too woozy to manage the buttons properly.

“You’d fish me out?” Kuryakin asked with surprise as he sat down on the edge of the other bunk. “I never thought of that.” He pulled his T-shirt over his head, turned out the single light and was quiet for a moment.

Then Kuryakin’s voice drifted through the darkness. “So, you want to do it?”

“Sure,” Solo said. “I still didn’t get laid tonight.”  

“Oh, you’d get laid all right,” the Russian said with a laugh, “but not the way you think.”

“Top. Bottom. Either way is fine with me. I told you: I like variety, new experiences, the occasional risk.”

“Then we’re perfect together, because I don’t.”

 “I know.”

“But we’re still friends. In spite of that, right?”

“Yup. And because of it, too. Now, go to sleep.”

As Solo turned over, he felt the pinch of a small slip of paper in his shirt pocket, the one on which he’d scribbled the phone number of the bartender from the restaurant earlier that evening. She’d told him not to call until after noon. Maybe they wouldn’t set sail too early. He could leave the boat with Illya for a few hours. Maybe he’d have time for a swim with her at least. Maybe, just maybe, there’d be time for something more.

 And with that in mind, he drifted off to sleep, dreaming pleasantly of possibilities.

 


End file.
